


Analysis Paralysis

by Polly_Phemus (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Slice of Life, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 04:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11570604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Polly_Phemus
Summary: John sends Sam and Dean on their own hunt.Teen for swearing, not much but enough not to be G-rated.





	Analysis Paralysis

"Okay," Dean said as they walked toward a cemetery, "remember, it's just a routine salt-and-burn. Okay?"

"That's two okays, Dean," Sammy said. 

"Wiseass," Dean said fondly.

"Wiseass who's paying attention," Sam retorted.

"Point," Dean conceded. "Supplies?"

"Flashlight, check. Shovel, check. Rock salt gun, check. Cartridges, check. Lighter, check. Gasoline, check. You?"

"Flashlight, check. Shovel, check. Cartridges, check. Lighter, check. Directions, check. Okay, lemme carry the gun."

"Why don't you take the gasoline until we get to the cemetery and then we switch?"

Dean grinned. He remembered when he'd done this the first time with Dad, five years earlier. He'd wanted to carry the gun he could barely fire as long as he could, too, and Dad had let him.

"Sure. Hand it over," Dean said, taking the gasoline.

They went over the basics as they approached their goal. Dad had laid the groundwork for them...literally. He'd gone in earlier and used the cemetery's equipment to remove most of the dirt from the target grave; although they were both strong for their ages, it was unrealistic to think a thirteen-year-old and a nine-year-old could manage to dig up a grave with just a couple of shovels. Sure, shoveling dirt was a routine workout for them, so they'd be able to handle the few remaining cubic feet of dirt without too much trouble, but the point of this wasn't exercise. This was the real deal and Dad didn't want them to exhaust themselves with physical labor but rather to get Sammy the hands-on experience of burning human remains in a dark graveyard.

As soon as they got to the cemetery gates, they spotted trouble.

"They chained the gate," Sam said.

"Yeah, guess someone did a sweep and noticed Dad's handiwork with the backhoe. Remember the procedure?"

Sammy wrinkled his nose. "Dad should have left bolt cutters about ten feet to the left of the gates."

"Gimme the gun and go for it," Dean said.

"Alone?" Sam asked. 

"Just ten feet, you'll be fine, Sammy," Dean said.

"Sam," his brother said.

"Yeah. Sam. Go on."

Sam handed Dean the gun and darted off to the left, automatically overshooting to the shrub at about the thirteen foot mark as soon as he saw that ten feet out was just open ground. He pulled out the bolt cutters and waved them triumphantly. 

Dean smiled, then suddenly yelled, "Go behind me!" when he noticed the ghost right inside the cemetery gate. Dean raised and fired while Sam ducked behind him. 

The ghost dissipated and Dean managed to stay on his feet.

"Okay, that one's on the job," Dean said as he broke to load a new cartridge. "Can you handle the bolt cutters while I cover you?"

"I'd rather do the covering," Sam said, voice shaking just a little. No more than Dean's had his first time.

"And I'd rather do the cutting," Dean said, "but I've got a just a little bit more bulk to handle the recoil."

"Yeah," Sam said. "But I could totally do it."

"Get moving," Dean ordered. Sam trotted up to the gate and did a good job of figuring out how to leverage the bolt cutters while staying low. As Sam was pulling the chain off the gates, Dean joined him.

They followed Dad's directions to the grave. 

"Okay, we've got a live dead one," Dean said. "Brace yourself on any convenient tombstone to cover me while I shovel the last of the dirt out."

Sam took the gun and leaned against Doris O'Hara, 1901-1962, Now One with God.

"Sorry, Ms. O'Hara," Sammy said. "But we need your help."

"Sure she's fine with it. She kept our crowbar safe," Dean said, retrieving the crowbar Dad had left for them.

Shoveling out the last of the dirt was quick work and Dean popped the coffin, chucking his shovel and crowbar back out before pulling himself out of the grave. Suddenly, there was a blur of action as a shape formed and Sam shot it.

And it seemed to re-form almost instantly. Sam shot it again.

"There's two of them," Sammy called, not quite at panic but close.

"Reload," Dean said as calmly as he could. "Keep it together while I smoke this son-of-a-bitch."

"Right," Sam said shakily.

Dean poured gasoline and dropped the disposable Bic on top of the grave just as Sam shot the spirit of its occupant again. 

"Now what?" Sam asked. "Oh," he said as the spirit manifested one last time only to disappear as the fire consumed its physical remains. The second one appeared again and Sam shot it.

"Crap," Dean said. Sammy was coping admirably, concentrating on reloading.

"What do we do?" Sam asked and that was a damned fine question.

"Run. Regroup. Report," Dean said automatically.

"Regroup? We have to split up?"

Dean thought about it, but wasn't sure. There were pros and cons to both splitting up and staying together. Splitting reduced the risk, but Sammy was only nine. He weighed his options.

And weighed his options. He wasn't panicking, exactly, but he wasn't sure what to do.

Sam shot again as the spirit re-manifested.

"Dean!" Sam called out and he was definitely panicking. Dean got to his side quickly, took the gun.

"Go," he finally said. "Run for the front gate and don't look back, okay?"

"I can't leave you here," Sam protested.

"You have to. I'll be fine."

"What if there's a third one?" Sammy asked, his voice higher than normal.

"Shit," Dean said. He hadn't thought of that.

"Get down," a voice bellowed out, seemingly from nowhere.

Both boys recognized Dad's voice and automatically flattened themselves on the ground while Dad shot high.

"Dad," Dean said, relieved.

"There's more than one," Sam said accusingly.

"Right," Dad said. "Didn't anticipate that at all, boys."

"What do we do?"

"Dean, take Sam and get out of here as fast as you can. Now, Dean, go!"

Dean grabbed Sam's hand.

"Wait," Sam said. Dean pulled at Sammy's hand.

"Order, Sammy," he said.

"I know who it is!" Sam announced.

"What?" Dean and Dad asked together.

"Ms. O'Hara," Sam said, indicating the grave. "Celtic knots on either side of the cross, spirit had a necklace like that. Also, age. Clothes and hair like on _Hazel_." Dean and Dad exchanged glances. "The TV show," Sam said, impatient in the face of their silence. "I bet it's her."

The spirit showed up again. Dean and their father took a good look at it...her. 

"Think he's right," Dad said.

"Cover while you get the backhoe?" Dean asked.

"I'll try," their father said. "Might've locked it up tighter than the gate."

The cemetery people had, so Dean and his dad dug out the grave by hand while Sam kept watch and talked to Ms. O'Hara, explaining what they were doing and why they were doing it. Dean wondered if it worked or if it was just coincidence that she only came back twice during the time it took them to dig up her grave.

"You really will be with God when we're done," Sammy said earnestly. Dean snorted and Dad frowned at him.

Hours later, exhausted, they came out of the graveyard and collapsed into the Impala, which Dad had parked near the gate.

Dad put everything in the trunk and came back with a six-pack of IBC.

"Beers all around," Dad said, passing out the root beers.

"Okay," Dad said after they'd each moved on to their second. "Overall, good job. Especially nice work by you, Sam. Your observations saved us at least a day of research and hunting. As for you, Dean...."

Dean braced himself. He'd screwed up, had wasted time with his indecision.

"A little analysis paralysis there, but good work considering you were dealing with the unexpected. So, boys, lessons?"

Dean exhaled. He was still mad at himself, but if Dad said it was okay, then it must be.

"Expect the unexpected," Dean said.

"Don't trust your sources," Sam said. Dean bristled. 

"Look, Dad didn't know! And we don't know of that bi...lady...was already waiting or if we disturbed her!"

"'S okay, Dean," Dad said. "Sammy's not entirely wrong. A source could lead you astray unknowingly or to fu...mess you over."

"You wouldn't do that," Dean said sullenly.

"Not knowingly," Dad said. "But everyone makes mistakes."

"I guess," Dean said, not pointing out that Sammy hadn't made any. Well, he hadn't followed orders as fast as Dean would've, but then he'd had important information that couldn't wait. So even his mistake wasn't really a mistake.

"It was a win," Dad said. "We'll talk later, in the morning, about how to figure out when to stay together and when to split up. It's not always an easy call, but the worst decision can be no decision at all."

"Got it," Dean said tightly. He really had screwed up. He was just lucky Sammy hadn't gotten hurt and his dad was in a forgiving mood.

He slept badly and, in his nightmares, he stood helplessly paralyzed, holding Sammy while the house burned all three of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited to remove the following anachronism in reference to the crowbar:
> 
>  
> 
> "Ol' Bluey," Sam said affectionately and Dean laughed. Kid was a champ, quoting _The Simpsons_ on his first hunt.
> 
> I looked it up and Bart didn't refer to his favorite crowbar as "Ol' Bluey" until season 9 (1997) and this story takes several years before that. D'oh!
> 
> Sam's still a champ, though.


End file.
